The Ghost of Telredor
by Kuss von der Sonne
Summary: When an illegitimate child is born albino to a well respected Anchorite, he heightens the superstitions and uncertainty of the entire order. After a feeble attempt to integrate him in the wake of her demise, he is left for dead in the legendary swampland.
1. A Simple Note

**Yes, I'm back!**

I know that I REEEAAALLY need to complete "This Past that Makes Us," but I have hit the BIGGEST WRITERS BLOCK EVER. Yeah…as you can probably tell, since it's been months since I updated that one…

whistles innocently

Plus you know…moving to Texas and all that… This place is a shithole.

Anyway, here are two new stories for you! Starting with this one (duh), until I find t he inspiration for my first one.

This story is for **T. Mirai **(If I spelled that wrong, I'm sooooooooo embarrassed, FYI), because she ALWAYS read every one of my chapters and commented, even when I had a burn out and neglected to do so for her. She is a wonderful author and you'd be a moron to NOT read her stuff.

The reviews SO keep me going…thank you all very, very much. Not ONE of them goes unnoticed.

Also, I'm an RP whore, so if anyone has a character on Moon Guard US (Horde or Alliance), feel free to drop me a line.

Thank you all!

PS. I know NOBODY listens to the songs inspored or in conjuction with fanfics...but if you're wither terirbly bored or curious, please youtube Yulunga, The Host of Seraphim, and Nierika while you read. No lyrics, and all of them are by Dead Can Dance, and are absolutely amazing. In my opinion, they truely add to the story.

-_Valkyrie_

Oh! And since doesn't want me to use an AN as a chapter (which is STOOPID, because as long as I'm following it with a real story.. *grumble grumble*) I will insert a story below. Ha.

_-----_

There was once a boy who ate fire. He died. The end.


	2. Prologue

My people, are a promised people.

A chosen people.

Since the day we became exiles, and chosen for the promise of a great destiny as an Army of the Light…

Warriors and catalysts for the righteous balance.

To us, K'ure made this promise.

As Draenei, we adopted the mantle of a greater destiny.

….But not all exiles are blessed with mercy.

Can I call myself Draenei?

I am an exile of all exiles…

Where was my mercy when the "chosen" men and women cast me away with fear, suspicion, and doubt?

The very same who were "chosen" to uphold and value the Light, who instead abandoned a child to be overtaken by the swamp and its rivers.

Even our Talbuk were allowed more a more dignified demise.

Good and evil, right and wrong…even the most valiant and the most malicious alike grapple with the age old struggle at some point.

And still, others are merely a casualty of it.

This is my story.

I.

Am.

Draenei.


	3. An Unwelcome Omen

"_Kaelenak_!"

With the urgent sound, his eyes immediately scanned his surroundings, ears straining to discern the cluster of sounds.

Everything was a mere blur of colors and indiscernible shapes—he did not trust on them anymore. His small hands flexed around the thick, dense fur of the Talbuk's leg. Above him, a low, heavy snort gusted over his face and parted his hair. It smelled thickly of grass and grain.

"_Kaelenak, nae Mala ne te_?"

There!

Abandoning his post by the Talbuk, the young Draenei bounded towards her voice—and straight into the gangly legs of another animal. He quickly sat up, fazed, nearly caught under the dancing hooves of the startled animal before strong, warm hands lifted him from the ground.

He didn't need to squint at the unclear face to know exactly who it was, and he sighed with immense relief. His mother clutched him fiercely to her soft bosom, and the familiar, cool softness of her Anchorites' robes soothed his hay-scratched skin.

Not far away, the stable master stood in place, Elekk prod still in hand. The old bull's eyes locked with the Anchorite. For a moment, neither spoke, but the worry and tension in the female's gaze was thick enough to cut.

"Nierika…" he said lowly, low voice shadowed with sympathy and regret.

Her fearful gaze looked suddenly fierce, and the Anchorite straightened her shoulders, child in arms.

"I do not need your pity, Belaan," she spoke softly, but the strength resonated in her voice. "It is merely a test for me…the Light will see us through."

The male hesitated, ready to protest, then simply tightened his lips, and nodded. It was not his place to contest anything with her offspring. His eyes settled on the child in her arms, pale as the moon and white as an ivory tusk; even the little one's eyes were becoming clouded and gray. It unsettled him…

Setting the prod aside, he placed his large, weathered palm on his chest and bowed politely, excusing himself.

And with that, the Priestess was gone, seemingly weightless as she left the stables in a flurry of robes and beads.

He shook his head as he watched her go. Ethereally beautiful and exceptionally gifted, he could not understand why such a goddess would hold her curse in her arms.


End file.
